


How Far Things Go

by Veganloki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Caretaker John Watson, Gen, Missing Sherlock, Platonic Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Pneumonia, Psychological Trauma, Sick Sherlock, im sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25172950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veganloki/pseuds/Veganloki
Summary: Sherlock has been missing for six months at the hands of Moriarty.Now he has been found, but what has changed?A story of recovery, setbacks, and incompetent help.Set ambiguously in season two. Ignores TRF.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	1. Found Boring

**Author's Note:**

> Yes it’s a trope, I wanted to do it anyway.  
> Set ambiguously in season 2.  
> Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters. They belong to Steven Moffat, the BBC and all of them.

_We found him - M.H._

Three simple words, words that John had been waiting to hear since Sherlock had gone missing six months ago. He had spent long nights tossing and turning in bed as his nightmares transformed from war scenes to Sherlock’s whereabouts. Some dreams were of Sherlock being tortured, fueled by horror stories he’d heard from his army mates. Some twisted ones were of Sherlock and Moriarty, being best pals and happily running a crime syndicate together. The worst though, were of Sherlock being dead, his body left to rot somewhere to never be found.

There were almost no clues of what had happened to Sherlock. He had simply left the flat one evening in a whirlwind and never returned. John thought nothing of it at first, dramatics was a common occurrence for Sherlock. He wasn’t even worried when Sherlock wasn’t home by the time he went to bed that night. It wasn’t until he woke up the next morning to the chime of his phone that John found out that there was something amiss.

It was a text from an anonymous number and contained a simple text. It read _“I think it’s time for me to spend some time with my favorite detective :) - JM”_

That was the beginning of the six months of hell that John had been living in. He had turned over everything he knew to Mycroft and New Scotland Yard, but there were no leads, no helpful CCTV footage, nothing. Lestrade said the case had gone cold and Mycroft had stopped coming around to the flat, only responding to John’s inquiries about any leads with short texts assuring him that they were still looking.

So yes, John had been waiting anxiously for Sherlock to be found for so long that when he finally got the text telling him that they found him, he just sat stock still in his armchair, barely breathing.

_Bring gun - M.H._

The second text hastened him into action, grabbing his SIG out of his bedside drawer and tucking it into the back of his trousers. He barely remembered to grab his coat as he flew down the stairs of 221B and out the door where a black car sat idling for him. He threw the back door open and slid in, the driver almost immediately pulling into the street.

Across the seat from him was a grim faced Mycroft Holmes, who was ardently texting and didn’t even look up. It didn’t take long for John to get impatient and loudly clear his throat. Mycroft gave him an exasperated look before finishing typing and slipping his phone into his coat pocket. He turned to fully face John.

“Approximately two hours ago I received an email from James Moriarty. It contained only an address and the word ‘boring’. My team is already there and setting up a perimeter. They are waiting for us to arrive to proceed inside.”

This was all said with the same grim expression and a lecturer’s tone, but John had interacted with Mycroft enough in the past few months to notice the slight rushing of words, as if he couldn’t hold back his anticipation. Then he focused more on the words that had been said.

“Wait, so you don’t even know if he’s actually there? How do you know this isn’t a trap set up by Moriarty?”

John’s imagination had taken off, thinking up endless ways this could go wrong. They could show up and the house would be empty, or it could be rigged with explosives set to go off as soon as someone went inside. Or, and John almost wept at the idea of it, they would show up only to find a corpse, a shell of what used to be John’s best friend.

“That is what my team is there to investigate. The address led to an estate about forty minutes outside of London and has been reported to seem empty. John, this is the first lead we have had in months. I simply assumed that you would want to be involved.”

Mycroft’s voice had turned sharp and brokered no argument. He quickly went back to doing who knows what on his phone. Sensing he wouldn’t get anything else productive out of the conversation, John turned to look out the window and tried to keep his mind from catastrophizing.

John was pulled out of his reverie when they stopped and had to do a double-take when he looked up at the mansion before him. When he had thought of Sherlock being held somewhere, he had thought of somewhere dark and horrible like an abandoned warehouse, or at least somewhere a little less….pristine. The building they had pulled in front of was a large country house, at least three stories high with a perfectly manicured garden in the front. There was no sign of the horrors that may be contained inside.

Mycroft’s teams were already there, ready to go inside as soon as they had arrived. They rushed into the building, splitting into groups to search the four levels of the house more effectively. John chose to take the basement and rushed off ahead in search of his flatmate, gun held at the ready just in case. Every room in the basement floor was empty, only closed boxes, exposed pipes and concrete walls, the dreary interior a stark contrast to the pristine exterior he was first presented with.

John was about to head back up the stairs when he heard a faint noise behind one of the walls. He crept back down the hall where he heard the sound and studied the wall more carefully. He saw a pale outline of a door, designed to blend in to the wall. Tucking his gun away, he tried to pry it open. It slowly inched sideways and a scrabbling sound came from behind it. That only made his resolve harden and within moments, he had shimmied the door open enough to where he could slip in.

As he crept into the dark room, he saw a figure scramble back into the corner. A whimper sounded through the room and when John shone his torch on the creature, he was horrified. The man had his legs pulled up to his chest, hiding his face in his knees and long dark curls cascaded down his head, hiding all facial features from sight, but you didn't need to see his face to see that he had been hurt horribly. There was a slow spreading puddle of blood underneath him and John could see that his left leg wasn’t fully cooperating with his scrabbling endeavors.

Wearing only some black trousers, John could clearly see the pronounced collarbones poking out under the skin on his shoulder and his legs looked lost in the torn swath of fabric that made up his suit bottoms, likely the same pair he had on when he was taken.

“Sherlock?” John hesitantly asked, frightened of the reaction the traumatized man could have. The dark haired man's head shot up and there was no doubt anymore. Even through the grime and blood John couldn’t forget that face. His cheekbones, made even more prominent through weight loss, the cupid bow lips, mumbling words John has yet to process, and his eyes, usually sharp with intelligence, glossed over in terror.

John felt the rush of his heartbeat in his ears, almost stumbling in relief. He hadn’t let himself hope, not wanting to feel the pain of disappointment if this had taken a turn for the worst. He almost couldn’t believe it. It was over. Six months of worry, dread and lost hope ,and it was over. Then he registered the words Sherlock was stuttering out.

“Please.. no more… please no”

Immediately, John’s ears stopped rushing. Slightly trembling hands steadied, his heartbeat slowed and his back straightened. John, Sherlock’s friend and flatmate was gone and Captain John Watson stood in his place. He had a mission: to protect Sherlock.

First, he quickly stepped back into the hallway and called to Mycroft’s men to tell them he had found Sherlock and to bring a stretcher. Then he stepped back into the room and faced his charge, who had started softly rocking back and forth.

“Sherlock, it’s John. I’m going to get you out of here.” John approached slowly with his hands raised like he would an easily spooked animal. Sherlock’s response was to push himself further into the corner, trying to make himself one with the wall. As John got closer, he could see a sheen of sweat covering Sherlock’s forehead and got a suspicion that the glossy look in his eyes was from more than just terror.

John repeated himself, “Sherlock, it’s John, John Watson. Do you recognize me?”

There, again, was no response from Sherlock, but it seemed like the effort to hold himself in a sitting position was becoming too much, as his arms started to shake underneath him. Now that he was looking, John started to notice more signs of a high fever and felt a pang of worry when Sherlock’s pupils did not respond to the torch being shone in his eyes.

Giving up on being recognized, John crouched down about a meter away from him in hopes of giving him space. This seemed to do the complete opposite though, as when John met Sherlock's eyes, now on level with his own, Sherlock started to scream.

John was surprised with how loud Sherlock got; he looked too weak to be producing that level of sound. As John went to back away, the movement only seemed to set Sherlock off more, who started trying to kick out with his uninjured leg.

It was then that the medics that had been called for showed up, with a stretcher between them. John motioned for them to stay back, not wanting to make the situation worse, but it ended up being unnecessary as Sherlock slumped over, unconscious.

The medics moved forward, quickly securing Sherlock to the spinal board and John barely had the time to touch Sherlock’s forehead before he was whisked upstairs. It was burning hot, like he suspected.

As he stood there, now alone in the basement room, John had one thought ringing in his head. They hadn’t found a corpse, but whether they found a shell was yet to be seen.


	2. Found Sick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than I wanted to get up, but here it is.  
> My only medical license is from google.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, Moffat, Gatiss and crew do.

As John trudged back up to the ground floor, he took in the decorations he had overlooked in his earlier search with a sense of detachment. Where the basement had been sparse of any adornment, the ground floor lived up to the grandeur that the outside hinted at. There was a white sofa that looked to have never been sat on and a polished floor, only scarred by the boots of Mycroft’s men. One polished picture frame held a photo of a traditional English family: a young boy situated between two straight faced parents. 

John took this in indifferently as he headed to the front door. Men dressed in black were doing a thorough search of the house, destroying any sense of order. The front door had been left swinging open and John slipped out of the house into the organized chaos that had become the front garden.

His eyes immediately sought out Sherlock, who was being attended to in the back of an ambulance parked close by. He headed straight for him, only to be intercepted by Mycroft a few steps in. 

“Move.” John said briskly; his only thought was to get to Sherlock. He couldn’t let him disappear again, not so soon after finding him. 

“Patience, John.” Mycroft was leaning on his umbrella, feigning indifference, though John had a suspicion that Mycroft had been as affected by his brother’s state as he had. “This ambulance will take you straight to a trusted private hospital. I have gotten clearance for you to be my brother’s main physician, that is, if you can pull yourself together enough to handle it?”

John straightened in reflexive indignation. “Of course I can handle it. Sherlock needs me. I have to do this.”

As the retort left his lips, John realized how true the words were. He  _ needed _ to do this. He had failed Sherlock for six months, had been no help in finding him. Hell, he didn't even know he was missing for a whole day. John had failed Sherlock in the past, but he could help him now and he fully intended to do that. No overprotective big brother would get in his way.

These thoughts must have shown on his face because Mycroft just gave a slight nod of his head and stepped aside. “I will stay here and oversee the investigation of the house. I will try to find any indication of Moriarty’s proceedings or whereabouts. When I am finished I will join you at the hospital.”

Needing no further invitations, John hopped into the back of the ambulance and took in the state of his flatmate as they drove off. Sherlock was still unconscious, features tight even in rest. A sheet of sweat covered most of his exposed skin and if John looked closely he could detect a faint trembling in his limbs. 

The paramedics had cut off Sherlock’s trousers and left him only in a loose pair of boxers. His left knee was red and swollen, likely the cause of his uncoordinated movement from before. Also, now in the light of the ambulance, John could see the source of the blood from before. 

Long straight lines, spanning across his chest, trailed down to his hips. The first one, going from collarbone to collarbone could barely be classified as a cut, just a thin white line marring the pale skin. However, as the cuts proceeded down his torso, they steadily got deeper, until John got to the last few, which were bleeding sluggish through what looked like busted stitches. The very last one, right over the hip bone, seemed to be over a quarter of an inch deep.

John tried to stop the bleeding while an EMT inserted an IV into Sherlock’s arm to combat the fever. As soon as the needle pierced his skin, Sherlock’s eyes shot wide open and he started to struggle weakly against the straps on the stretcher. 

“No, please… not again. No… John, please. John. No.” Sherlock was trying to jerk his arm away from the paramedic, throwing his head back and forth in panic. Then his eyes landed on John. The detective threw all his weight away from John, trying to escape the stretcher and possibly John himself. 

“John, John, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll be better I promise.” 

Sherlock’s struggling seemed to be agitating his chest wounds as they started to bleed more freely and his heartbeat on the monitor was increasing at an alarming rate. 

Hesitating from actually touching him, John raised his hands in the air and tried to soothe the panicking man. “Hey, it’s me. It’s John. Everything is alright now. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you, I’m trying to help.” 

Sherlock continued to struggle, seemingly doing his best to tip the stretcher over in his pursuit to escape John. John’s platitudes did not seem to be having any effect at all on the outburst. The doctor had no choice but to grab Sherlock’s arms and try to hold him still lest the man injure himself further in his struggles. 

Additional restraint did nothing to calm Sherlock down and his pleas turned into a keening that pierced the ears of everyone in the ambulance. Then it stopped as Sherlock quickly fell victim to the sedative the EMT had finally succeeded in injecting.

John stared down at his unconscious friend and let out a sigh, there was still a lot of work to be done. 

…

Leaning against the wall outside of Sherlock’s hospital room, John took a moment to just breathe. It had been almost four hours since he had first set his eyes on Sherlock in that basement, and he felt like he has not had time to take a breath since. 

He realized it was selfish, but after so long living in uncertainty, John just wanted to stand there in the hallway and pretend that Sherlock was fine behind that door. That he was just resting after taking a six month long adventure where nothing bad happened to him and he was just too busy with that genius brain of his to remember to bring John along. Before John knew it they would be back to solving cases together, or Sherlock would solve them and John would be there to get him out of the inevitable trouble he would get himself into. 

As the thought of Sherlock in trouble came into his mind, John felt himself sag further against the wall and wiped a hand down his face. John and the other doctors had done everything they could to treat him, but Sherlock wasn’t in good shape physically. There wasn’t enough information to tell how he was mentally, but going from the way he’s reacted so far, John doesn’t have high hopes. 

John had spent six months searching and worrying and despairing. What had  _ Sherlock _ gone through during those six months? And why did he respond so badly whenever he noticed John, was it the delirium from the fever or something more sinister?

“Ah, Dr. Watson, I assume that you have gotten everything under control here. How is my brother?” Mycroft’s voice pulled him out of his ruminations.

The sight of Mycroft in his still pristine suit, striding down the hallway towards him caused John to straighten up and try to pull himself together enough to feel a semblance of control. 

“He’s sleeping now, or more like sedated.” At Mycroft’s slightly raised eyebrow John hastened to add, “He had an episode in the ambulance. Overall, he has a pretty severe case of pneumonia, malnourishment, a fractured knee cap, multiple lacerations on his chest that looked to be previously treated, and a pretty impressive collection of bruises.”

Listing out Sherlock’s injuries like that left John feeling slightly ill. Mycroft seemed to be affected as well, shown only in the minute pursing of his lips and white-knuckled grip on his umbrella. 

“He will recover?” Mycroft inquired.

“We were lucky we didn’t have to ventilate him, but he is on antibiotics for the pneumonia. We’ve stabilized the kneecap and he might need some physical therapy, but otherwise he should physically recover.” John didn’t put an emphasis on the word physically, but Mycroft caught the meaning of the word anyway.

Giving a small hum, Mycroft opened the door to the private room housing Sherlock. Not making a move to actually enter the room, he studied his brother lying in the hospital bed. 

Sherlock seemed to be dwarfed by the bed with how small he looked, his chest barely rising and falling as he gave short wheezy breaths. His arms, resting on top of the sheets, almost blended in with how pale they were. An IV was poking out of his left hand, connected to a bag of antibiotics. A lump protruded through the sheets over his left kneecap where a brace was holding it in place to prevent movement. It was an overall disheartening sight. 

Mycroft studied Sherlock for a few more moments in the doorway before turning and beginning to walk back down the hallway. 

“Wait, you’re leaving?” John called after him.

“I can do nothing for my brother standing over his sickbed. I can help him by catching all who were involved in his abduction.” 

“Do you have any leads on Moriarty? I can help take the bastard down.” John took a step closer in anticipation.

“I assure you Dr. Watson that I have this under control. My people are currently tracking down the owner of the estate where Sherlock was found. The best place for you is here with Sherlock, as his doctor.” With a polite smile and a small nod, Mycroft ended the conversation by walking away. 

“As his doctor, right.” John breathed to the empty hallway. He took a moment to prepare himself for the sight of Sherlock again and turned back to the door that had been left open. Steeling himself, he walked into the room and sat in the chair by his bedside. Yes, John was Sherlock’s doctor and he would be there when he woke up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time we should see a little more of Sherlock's current mindset.


End file.
